One More
by Apocalyptic-Mess
Summary: The string pulls taught. "You're from the Capitol." I look more closely at this girl; dark hair tucked in a braid, gray, almost silver, eyes, an elegant bow and impressive sheath of arrows. "You can cosplay in Heaven?"
1. Chapter 1

Someone's screaming.

I can't tell if it's me, or my little brother huddled tightly against my side, my uncle in the front seat; it could be the pilot for all I know. I can't even tell. My attention focused solely out the window at the planes left wing, and it's failing engine.

We're going to crash. It's entirely possible I'm the one screaming.

I clutch my brother tighter to me, my bag jammed uncomfortably between us. I hadn't even had enough warning to quickly shove it under my seat.

We're going to crash.

The plane is tilted almost straight towards the ground; maximum impact. Survival rate: 0%. The pilot is yelling something at us, looking over his shoulder. I look away from the sputtering engine and try to hear the instructions being shouted at us, but I can't hear anything above the screaming. Try to read his lips, but my vision is so jolted and shaky that I can't even focus. I yell at him, telling him I don't understand, and that's when I realize in the midst of all the insistent, urgent beeping, no one is screaming. The shrieking is the plane, announcing our next destination with increasing intensity.

_We're going to die_.

I kiss the top of my brothers head, whisper, "You're a pain the ass, but I love you." and rest my chin on his hair, staring out the window. I can make out the tops of the ever approaching buildings, the lights blurring together at our speed.

I intend to greet my impending death with at least a little bit of dignity, but the second right before our plane crashes into the ground, I start screaming.

*KP*KP*KP*

When I gain consciousness, my only audible reaction is the sob that bubbles up from my throat.

_I'm dead._

The information, though not unexpected after watching the ground racing up to meet us, still holds an infinite amount of sorrow. If I'm dead, then so is my little brother. Never got to graduate high school—he wanted to be a lawyer. What kind of fifteen year old wants to be a lawyer? And my uncle . . . he has a one year old at home. _Had_. She will grow up without a father; without two of her cousins.

I've heard death is supposed to be peaceful. If so, I'm not handling death very well.

Brendan, my little brother, as much as I find the kid annoying, he's still my _brother_. Fifteen. Fifteen and he's dead now. He doesn't deserve this. And a plane crash? Really? Our mom will be lucky to get a few bone fragments.

I'm dead, but still aware. I still have conscious thought. Just to make sure, I set a goal in mind. _Find Brendan_. So far, it's the only remotely hopeful thought, even if it doesn't contain much logic. I don't know how death works—is there a manual somewhere?—but even thinking of finding my brother is the only thing giving me incentive to get up.

I can feel my limbs, so that's a good thing, I guess. I still have a body.

I take stock in the fact that, after flexing and testing my fingers, toes, I've come away generally unharmed. Shifting slightly, I feel no pain, just a general sense of stiffness, like having slept for too long. In a perfect world, that might come as good news.

_I'm dead_. The resounding ache of loneliness only serves to make things worse. I ignore it in the face of my new goal, but death is going to take some getting used to.

I slowly open my eyes, the light almost blinding me in its brilliance.

_Heaven_. The thought strikes me suddenly, and I let out a breathy chuckle. "And here I was thinking Hell had reserved me a place."

Sitting up takes a lot more effort than opening my eyes had required. Once my head stops spinning and the urge to throw up subsides, I observe my surroundings. A forest. Not much different than the ones I grew up near; tall pines, leafy bushes, an assortment of bright wild flowers and a consistent bed of pine needles and damp leaves that soften footsteps. Serene and bright, watery green. Silent.

Not the place of a recent plane crash.

I decide that it's not a bad place to spend my death. My bag even came with me, propped up against a tree a few feet away. I dimly wonder if my laptop would have to be recharged in Heaven.

No_. Brother first, death details later._

There aren't any critical injuries that I can distinguish, not even so much as a scratch, but standing, especially after having so much difficulty even sitting up, seems like a task I can't manage on my own. On hands and knees, I make my way over to my bag and use the tree trunk to hold up my weight. My legs feel stiff like they haven't been used in days, but once I'm standing, it doesn't seem as bad. I even take a few experimental steps away from the tree, then jog in a slow circle. I run my hands down my torso, my hips, my legs, double checking that I'm not bleeding out. The only thing I find is a dark bruise under the band of my jeans. And a penny-sized tear near the bottom of my shirt.

"Son of a bitch!" I whisper furiously, staring at the tear. "They can fix broken bones, but they can't repair my favourite shirt?"

_Assholes_.

I attribute my lack of awareness to the sudden frustration. It's why I don't hear the sharp whisper at first.

I retrieve my pocket knife from my jeans, the weight familiar in my hand and wait. The sound comes closer, a soft almost non-existent shuffle, a whisper. Why would there be someone else in my Heaven? _This isn't an episode of Supernatural—_

The second I see her and she sees me, her bow is raised, an arrow nocked and ready to fly at my chest.

From experience, I know that arrows beat knives nine times out of ten. I let the knife slip from my grasp as I hold up my hands in surrender.

"Don't shoot," I breathe, staring at the poised arrow. "I come in peace." I attempt, but the girl doesn't so much as bat an eye.

She's silent as she contemplates me. A piece of dark hair comes free from her braid and falls in her eyes but she doesn't react.

"Who are you?" She demands.

A small, stupid rebellious streak in me flares in anger, but I squash it with the image of the sharp arrow head. Even if I am in Heaven, I don't know the laws. Can you die when you're already dead?

I don't want to be the first to test the theory.

"I-I'm Dean—well, Calleigh. Wiche. That's my last name." I'm rambling, but I don't know how else to react with a weapon poised at me. I offer her my hand to shake. "But you can call me Dean—it's my nickname. 'Cause my middle name is Aberdeen, and it's short for . . . it, and . . ."

She cuts me off curtly, completely ignoring my extended arm. "Where are you from? You're not from twelve."

Twelve? What? "I . . . I was flying with my brother and uncle and his friend, but . . . we crashed. The plane . . ." I looked around quickly, but I know there's no evidence of the crash here. I want to tell her that I need to start looking for my brother, but for some reason, I don't want to reveal that I lost him in the first place; makes me feel like an inadequate excuse for a sibling. Another part of me thinks she might understand. The shame beats all competition.

The string pulls taught. Her eyes flash dangerously and I swallow hard. "You're from the Capitol."

I blink. Once. Twice. I open and close my mouth several times, trying to form a coherent sentence. I look more closely at this girl; dark hair tucked in a braid, gray, almost silver, eyes, an elegant bow and impressive sheath of arrows.

"You can cosplay in Heaven?"

I had to admit, it's a pretty impressive costume. I've only ever gone to one convention, but I'd seen a few Katniss cosplays (surprisingly, there were more Effie's) but this girl would have taken the cake. The faded, worn leather jacket is a nice touch, but I'm more impressed with her bow. My flimsy thing back home would never be able to compare.

My question causes her to lover her bow slightly, releasing some of the drawback tension. Some part of me expected the girl to laugh, throw down her weapon and have a moment of shared fangirl camaraderie. Katniss girl is staring at me in complete confusion. Either she's a very good actress, or she's just a figment of my imagination in my heaven.

"The Hunger Games?" I try again. An expression of pain overtakes her features, and I quickly bend down to unclip the small pin from the strap of my bag. A cheap replica from Hot Topic, but who am I to be picky? I'm only about five paces away from her, but I hold up the pin for her to examine. "See? And you're supposed to be Katniss Everdeen, right?"

Something in her expression changes when she sees the pin. Her grip on the ready arrow tenses and she takes a step forward, her eyes flashing with anger. "Why do you have that? Where did you get it?"

Really?

"A store." I answer shortly because really, where does she think I got it? And even my fandom driven brain isn't letting me forget about my resolution to find my brother. "Look," I say to get her attention, which is focused on scrutinizing the pin. My shame is momentarily beat out by logic; if this girl knows how Heaven works, then I need to ignore my pride. "I don't know the rules around here, and I need to find my brother."

Suddenly she snaps back into focus, narrowing her gray eyes at me. "Rules? Around where? District 12?" At my blank expression, she continues harshly, "Just where do you think you are?"

I have to admit, she's an amazing actress, but her oblivious act is starting to piss me off. I _really_ need to find my brother. I breathe in slowly and, as calmly as I can, say, "You can stop pretending, you know. I know you're not really Katniss. I just want to find my brother." When nothing in her expression gives any indication that she knows what I'm talking about, I snap, "If you're not going to help me, you can run off and play hunter with your Gale."

As the arrow pierces my left shoulder, the only thing I know is that it didn't come from her; I haven't broken eye contact once. I stay conscious long enough to hear her give a yelp of surprise and call over her shoulder before I fall to the ground.


	2. Chapter 2

The pain is so real and so immediate when I wake up that I know I'm not dead. I've almost drown before; I've been hit by a car while crossing the street; I even cracked my skull when I was younger. Burns, cuts, stitches. The pain in my shoulder is like all of these injuries happening at once, amplified. I come to screaming when I feel somebody prod the wound. I recoil at the sight of the arrow still embedded in my shoulder, and my immediate response is to reach up and pull out the offending object, but as soon as my right hand leaves the table, it's being pushed back down by firm, gentle hands.

"We have to tie a tourniquet before we can take it out." The words directed at me come from the mouth of a young girl, fourteen at the most, with blonde hair pulled back and unwavering blue eyes. My mother's a nurse, I know what a tourniquet is, but I can't seem to recall what they're used for. "Can you tell me your name?"

I open my mouth to reply but the only thing that comes out is, "There's an arrow in my arm."

A snort originates from beyond the girls shoulder and I have to crane my neck to see the person standing in the open doorway. The girl from the woods. Blondie sends her a disapproving glance. "She's delirious with pain. Did she tell you her name?"

"She said it was Dean, but Gale seems convinced she's a Capitol spy and she's lying."

"Dean?" Blondie asks and it's all I can do to roll my head towards her and nod. "Dean, I'm going to have to cut off your shirt so I can see the wound, okay?"

_This is my favourite shirt_. For some stupid reason, I feel a few tears escape my eyes. I nod.

"Prim . . ."

_Prim?_

"It's alright, Katniss. You can go."

_Katniss?_

"Yell if you need me."

So not only am I very much alive, but these people . . . are real? That would at least explain not only the amazing acting skills, but the perfect costumes as well. _Real_. This is happening. Primrose and Katniss Everdeen are really alive, and I really did get shot in the shoulder. As if to illustrate the point, the pain in my shoulder flares as Prim ties the tourniquet. I grit my teeth.

"Who shot me?" I really want to know, but Katniss—Katniss Everdeen!—has already fled the room, the door now shut tight. I redirect the question at . . . Prim.

No way is this real.

Occupied with cutting up the length of my shirt sleeve, she doesn't immediately reply. "Katniss said it's a good thing he can't shoot as good as her, or you'd be dead." The tip of the scissors accidentally knick the arrow and I inhale sharply, biting my tongue against the pain.

_At this point, I think I'd rather be dead_.

When she mumbles the name 'Gale Hawthorne', I freeze.

_Real, Dean. This is real._

Gale Hawthorne. Prim Everdeen. She's alive and Gale isn't in District 2. It takes a few seconds for me to try and pinpoint _when_ exactly I've landed based on the timeline of the fictional—_this can't be real_!—book series. Fictional? _I guess not ._ . .

I wish my brother was here to see this, but right now, I'm more worried about getting the arrow out of my arm.

Taking in my surroundings—a large, moderate-looking enclosed kitchen—I theorize that the room I'm in is too nice to be the Everdeens' house in the Seam. And Katniss had recognized the pin, so it would have to be after Katniss and Peeta won the Games the first time.

Peeta. He's real, too. I struggle to remain composed in the knowledge of my OTP come to life.

And District 12 is still here! All these people, alive. And the fence—Katniss (and Gale) must have been hunting, so the fence was still deactivated. After the Hunger Games, before the Victory Tour.

My OTP is still at odds with each other right now. That has to be fixed.

In my personal giddy euphoria, I hardly even comprehend Prim's warning before she's gripping the shaft of the arrow and pulling it out of my shoulder in one smooth, unhesitating motion. To my credit, I don't black out this time. I almost would have preferred it if I had. The sound that's ripped from my throat is like nothing I've ever made before, and it leaves me panting and dizzy. I'm about to ask for her to fork over some Advil before I realize that she'll have no idea what I'm referring to. Even as I'm thinking of asking her to search for them in my bag—I know there'll be some in there; my mother never lets me leave home without some—Prim is placing some leaves over the wound and, while they don't take away the pain completely, it seems to numb the site somewhat.

When I ask her what kind of leaves they are and what they're used for, Prim smiles. "Helps fight off infection."

It takes her a few minutes to make sure I have no internal bleeding, and then stitch me up. The entire while I'm gripping the edge of the table, running my nails along the grain of the wood. All the questions running through my mind have to be contained because if I were to open my mouth, the only thing released would be a series of frustrated, pained grunts.

When Prim's done with the necessary torture, she places more of the leaves over the site and wraps my shoulder with a clean length of bandage. The injury has stopped throbbing for the most part, but it's still plenty painful. Even with the heat radiating from the site every time I feel my heartbeat, I try to sit up. Prim immediately pushes me back down with a frown.

"You don't understand," I say. "I have to find my little brother."

Her eyes soften but when I try once again to sit up, the pressure from her hand is surprisingly firm. "You should probably rest first. I'm sorry, but right now, you're my patient." She takes her hand away but only so she can bustle to the stove and set a pot of water to boil.

"I don't know where he is." I admit to her, if only so that she'll realize she has to let me go. "He could be anywhere."

"Where did you last see him?"

The shame is back again with resolute force. _On a plane destined for a crash landing_. But I can't exactly say that. The closest thing Panem has to a plane are Hovercrafts, and I'm not sure what Katniss told her while I was unconscious. I have no good answer for her, so when I respond, it's a few seconds late. "I don't remember."

I'd always prided myself on my lying skills, but the way Prim's looking at me, like she can see right through me, tells me I'm not fooling her. To her credit, she doesn't press me for the truth. Instead, she fills a mug with a few crushed herbs and the steaming water and—_finally_—allows me to sit up, after which she hands me the cup. I take it hesitantly.

"It's just some tea to help you sleep."

Curiosity has me wanting to question her as to what kind of herbs she used, and where I could find some but I hold my tongue. I've always been interested in herbal medicine, but my knowledge is fairly limited, and not many people are willing to let me experiment when they're sick, not wanting to risk me making a mistake and accidently poisoning them or something. I take a small sip.

Content that I'm at least following this instruction, Prim ducks into a cupboard under the sink and removes a gray fleece blanket and, after letting me drain the cup and making me lay back down, tucks it around me, making sure to be careful around my shoulder.

"Rest." Prim says softly. "Katniss will want to talk to you in the morning, and I'll get my mother to recheck the wound when she gets home."

"Where is she now? Your mother." I'm curious as to why it's Prim who's taking care of me, not their mother who I know is an experienced healer. From the books, I know that Katniss views Prim as an exceptional healer, but my faith only extends so far.

"Helping a patient in the Seam," is all she replies; I don't pry.

A question begins to nag at me and I'm about to ask if she knows exactly _why_ Gale shot me when Prim rests a hand on my arm. "Sleep."

I obey.

For the first time in over a decade, I have nightmares. I dream of the crash, waking up and seeing my families burnt and mutilated bodies. I dream of wandering, not being able to find my little brother. I dream of finding him and watching him take an arrow through the heart.

When I wake up screaming, it's still dark outside. The pain in my shoulder has subsided enough that it's bearable, but when I try to sit up, I still have to clench my teeth against the sudden urge to scream profanities. In my delirium, I almost don't hear the soft whimper.

Katniss, her body trembling, lays slumped against the door, a knife visibly clenched in her fist. My first instinct is to draw my own knife, but after placing a hand over my empty pocket, I remember that I dropped it in the woods. I can only hope that Katniss—or Gale, after _shooting me_—picked it up along with my bag.

My legs are surprisingly steady underneath me and I barely stumble as I walk the four short steps and crouch down cautiously in front of the whimpering girl. I feel . . . extremely awkward. Now that I know this girl, this woman, is the _real_ Katniss Everdeen, I feel really uncomfortable knowing that I've read her personal thoughts, cried when she cried, knew she was having a nightmare and I know how she could prevent them.

But I can't really tell her, can I?

_If you and Peeta want to stop having nightmares, you should just sleep together._

I'm pretty sure that suggestion would just make things worse.

Hesitantly, I shake Katniss' shoulder, making sure to shuffle a step back so I'm out of range of her knife. "Katniss." She startles awake, blinking rapidly, but the knife stays in her limp hand. For a moment before her expression hardens, I notice how exhausted she looks; too tired to fight back.

It feels too weird to say that I know what she's going through, that I'm a fan of her character and that I've read her future. I settle for a quiet, "Are you alright?" She doesn't answer and in the uncomfortable silence, I rock back on the balls of my feet. "You were having a nightmare."

Having a staring contest with Katniss Everdeen is really quite unnerving. Even though at this point I'm a year older than her, I can't help but feel inferior. This girl, she just survived the Hunger Games. She's going to survive it again.

That's when it hits me that maybe I can change it. Keep Katniss and Peeta from entering the Quarter Quell. Keep Peeta from getting hijacked. Keep Gale from making that bomb. And Finnick!

I'm just about to tell Katniss that I can help her but in my excitement, I fidget which makes the blanket pull against my shoulder and I gasp in pain.

"How's your shoulder?"

Getting her to say something gives me a small measure of pride and I give her a small smile and shrug with my right shoulder. "Can't complain; your sister is a miracle worker."

After reading three novels from Katniss' perspective, I'm not surprised at the sudden change of topic. "Gale thinks you're a spy from the Capitol."

I nod slowly. "You don't necessarily believe him, but you still don't trust me not to kill your family in their sleep."

She seems shocked at my calm tone and straightforwardness, but also a little disbelieving. "_Are_ you from the Capitol?"

I start to shake my head no before I hesitate. Where I come from, haven't many people compared us to the Capitol? Frivolous and extravagant, always with enough to eat and money to spend. "I'm not from the Capitol, exactly, but . . . it's almost as bad."

Katniss raises an eyebrow in question. _And where is that?_

But I ignore it because another thought has taken over my mind, and this time there's no Prim to restrain me with her words.

_My brother could be here. In Panem. In another District. _

The thought is terrifying. My little brother, while he's not _that_ little—recently fifteen—is probably the world's worst liar, and has the self-preservation tendencies of a lemming. But it would be impossible for me to jump on the next train and check every District. Separation of the Districts is what's allowing the Capitol to remain in power; not being able to coordinate the rebellion. The only way I'm going to be able to find my brother—if he's even here, wherever _here_ is—is to bring down the Capitol. With my knowledge of what's going to happen, who says that's impossible?

"I can help you."

There's no realization in Katniss' expression, but I don't blame her. At this point, she has no idea of the existence of District 13 or the rebels or Snow's threats to convince the Districts of her love as a distraction. But while Katniss has no idea what I'm referring, I can think of someone who might.

"Is it too early to wake up Haymitch?" I glance out the window and note the sky has lightened significantly, but I still have to indication of the time, and my cell phone had been stuffed in my bag.

"You know Haymitch?" The incredulous expression on Katniss' face would be, under any other circumstances, hysterical, but I bite back a laugh and instead just nod.

The distrust in Katniss' eyes lessens somewhat, but the dry smile that crosses her face holds no sense of companionship. "It's never too early to wake that old drunk."


End file.
